


A Laugh Tinted Blue

by Jus



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Eskel, Big brother Eskel, Comfort fic, Eskel centric, Eskel is envious, Get Together, Jaskier loves everyone, M/M, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Or will they?, Pining, Witchers senses are all outta whack, brothers in arms, everyone is done with Geralt's bs and honestly so am i, someone love him please, sorry those tags are a mess, very little beta we agonise like Geralt in his cart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jus/pseuds/Jus
Summary: Geralt isn't exactly different.Not really.Eskel finally witnesses the company his brother keeps on the Path, and he isn't exactly jealous, either.
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion (unrequited), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskel - Relationship
Comments: 72
Kudos: 445





	1. Dear Bard, Dear Witcher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subparangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/subparangel/gifts).



> Hi everyone! This is my first work in this fandom, so I hope it isn't too outlandish. I just love the idea of Jaskier and Eskel.  
> I loved writing this and I really want to keep it up, but my track record with finishing WIPs is atrocious. Hopefully this will escape the curse!
> 
> Thanks to subparangel who's been an absolutely amazing partner in crime bouncing ideas off of.

In the winter of 1240, Geralt arrives as late as the first snowstorm.

Now, Eskel is the eldest. He knows his brothers, and Geralt is never late. One could say the man has an unseemly timing most of the time, even.  Upon asking, Geralt says his last contract took a strange turn and he had to take a man to the court of King Henselt before coming up to the mountains.

Eskel smells the slight acidity of a half lie in the air between them. It's been a long time, but Geralt doesn't seem bothered by the lying, so he lets it go.

* * *

When they come back up two winters later, what had been murmurs and hums for a while have now picked up. Almost every sizable village and town knows at least the melody to  _ Toss A Coin _ , and few are those in cities who don't know the words.

Geralt comes in late for the third winter in a row, once again laden in more trinkets than is necessary for a Witcher. Eskel is surprised that this is now the life of his brother. Geralt himself hasn't changed : still grumpy and closed off for the first few days, then slowly relaxing, learning once more to let the tension melt in the warmth of the keep. But neither him or Lambert are fooled, and Vesemir lest of all. They keep it quiet, though, this strange new aspect of Geralt’s life. That bard that seems to stick to him in mannerism and habits he shakes after a week or so, but that are different enough for everyone to know.

Eskel hears him hum when he thinks he’s out of range.

\---

"You've not met the bard?" asks Lambert out of the blue in the middle of the worst snowstorm they've had in decades. It's early in the year 1243. Geralt is off taking a bath.

"No. Have you?"

"Yeah. Lucky bastard." The jealousy coming from Lambert is faint, but present. He's always been the most feeling of them, as Geralt is the least.

"Whom, Geralt?"

"Yeah. You'll understand if you see them. They smell like each other and shit. It's annoying." Eskel is taken aback by the comment. For two people to smell like each other-

"You travelled with them?"

"Just had dinner on the road," Lambert says with a shake of his head. "The bard's a cheeky bastard, though, so I can't be that wrong when I believe somethin’ is happening."

Eskel lets the subject drop. Sometimes he honestly can't tell when his youngest brother just wants to rile them all up. Lambert can get testy, walled off for the winter and pick fights when there are none. They all do.

But he can see how that would be annoying. They're brothers, they're a pack - they have a calling and it is the Path. Being distracted by a human isn't right. It's not unheard of, far from it, but something in him settles wrong at the thought. He’s trying not to think why that is. It’s obviously because he doesn’t want anything to happen to Geralt just because he was distracted by the fate of a human he cares too much for.

* * *

The time spent on the Path is monotonous and lonely, rhythmed and lulled only by the change in seasons. Winter at Kaer Morhen, sweet spring, sweltering summer, biting autumn, rinse and repeat. Which is why surprises (good ones even more than bad ones) make Eskel happy. His mind feels old like his body doesn’t, and surprises keep him sharp. When he hears that the White Wolf has already taken care of a contract he heard from a couple of villages away, he decides that this is his chance to have a nice surprise for himself.

Eskel has  _ not  _ been looking for Geralt and his bard. That's simply untrue.

He just happens to hear that they're close by, and what kind of brother would he be if he didn't swing by and say hello? That would be extremely rude. He'd expect Lambert to do so, but he has a stricter conscience. But he’s slightly curious, he’ll admit. He wants to see the bard and see what’s so special that Geralt has been travelling on and off with him for several years.

He finds them right where he was told they would be, at the stables adjoining the inn. The little town is lively, smells and noise and colours assaulting his senses enough that he doesn't realise it straight away -but Lambert was right. They smell like each other, and Roach. Eskel, atop Scorpion, is dumbfounded. He thought that Lambert was exaggerating the closeness between the two, but not at all. Except the layer of sweat that is distinctly them, each man smells the same - a mix of the two, tangled up, barely distinguishable. Something twists in Eskel’s stomach. Hearing it was something, witnessing it, it’s… It shouldn't be. His senses have been mutated further than Lambert’s or Geralt’s even if the latter had another row of Trials in him, and usually that saved his life, but right now he wishes he could claw his nose off. Once again, he doesn’t try to wonder why that is.

" … -real? It's you, brother!" He manages to catch the end of Geralt's greeting, and raises his hand in an awkward wave before dismounting.

"Geralt. Fancy meeting you out here," he manages smoothly as he pulls the reins over his stallion's head.

“Indeed,” Geralt says, a bit more collected once his initial surprise is gone. “Jaskier, this is my older brother.”

The bard's peeking his head from behind Geralt's shoulder. He's nearly as tall as the White Wolf, probably of a height with Eskel himself, with a mop of brown hair and laughing, impossibly blue eyes. Eskel’s heart squeezes when he realises just how young he is. He’s not very good at telling human’s ages, what with being blessed with slow aging; but he’d put the man at well under 30. He tries not to stare at him. It’s difficult: he is magnetic in everything he does, the bright colours of his clothes flashing with every movement. His mouth with thin lips is apparently forever stretched in a smile, if the slight lines on his cheeks are anything to go by, especially at his young age . The blue eyes go wide with wonder as they take him in, sliding over his scars in a way Eskel isn’t sure he’s ever witnessed.

"You must be the bard. Jaskier, is it?" Eskel holds out a gloved hand, and Jaskier all but shoves his brother out of the way to shake on it with both of his hands -ungloved, warm, lute-calloused.

"Geralt, he knows my name! Have you been talking about me this time, not like with Lambert? I hope he hasn't said only awful things. What might be your name, dear Witcher?"

"Ah- I'm Eskel. I'm sorry, I've got to get-"

He motions awkwardly to his horse and Geralt nods, his expression clearly expressing annoyance and how sorry he is for the bard's overenthusiastic nature. If he had half a mind, Eskel would scoff at his little brother and ask Jaskier to stay and tell him more about how it's been travelling with his brother. Trying to know more about the little human that's managed to bear Geralt's awful disposition, however awkward that may be. But they’re going in, leaving him to his thoughts, and Eskel is a bit lost.

His mind is muddled for more than a second. Eskel's never been anyone's dear anything. Even his own child surprise had- no one ever gave him a second glance before, and now-

But Jaskier has looked up straight at him, and taken his hand in his own without a second of hesitation but with  _ excitement _ , and smiled at him and asked for his name. Many just call him 'Master Witcher'. Jaskier has called him  _ dear _ .  He tries not to dwell too much on it, and takes way too long taking care of Scorpion. He brushes his coat and his mane, would've washed him if he could. Checks his horseshoes for pebbles.  A human has called him dear, a human with a bright smile and a human entirely clothed, a human he barely met and didn't pay, a human that smells like his brother and a human who isn't scared. Geralt has said as much - "He doesn't have a shred of survival instinct." Maybe he shouldn't be so shaken up about it.

When he gets into the inn, the noise is nearly enough to drive him out again at first. It soon registers as a song, and looking around he can see that Jaskier has taken up his job quite seriously and has gotten almost every patron in the room to sing along. It's not that bad, just extremely loud. Busy with his thoughts as he was, he hadn't realised just how much.

As is his habit, Geralt is tucked away in a corner, but hasn't put his hood up, white hair and golden eyes gleaming in the light of the candles and oil lamps disposed everywhere. There are three plates on the table, one that has barely been touched next to Geralt's picked apart one, and a full one across. Eskel takes his cue and sits in front of the other Witcher, twisting a little on himself on the bench to look at Jaskier just as Geralt is.

"Lambert was right." He remarks out of the blue, and he can hear the envy in his voice even as he says it. He tries to hide his wince.

"What? He tried to talk shit about Jask?"

"No. He simply remarked that you smell like each other." Eskel turns back to look his brother in the eye, trying to appear unbothered. Jask, huh. It's so… Domestic, nicknames. A pit forms in his stomach and grows. "He's right. I've never known you to smell like chamomile."

"Oil," Geralt huffs and shoves an entire potato in his mouth - out of embarrassment or anger, Eskel doesn't know. The only smell he wants to focus on right now is that of his bowl of stew and warm bread. He tucks in as he raises a brow at Geralt, asking silently for an elaboration. "He gets sores, suggested I have some as well- stop looking at me like that, will you?"

"Sure," Eskel says and focuses on his food.

The dinner is a lively affair. Jaskier joins them after a while, already well sloshed up, and it takes all of Geralt’s patience (more than Eskel has ever seen him show, actually) to convince the bard that finishing his plate wouldn’t make him fat in the slightest. Eskel is pretty sure that was a bit of a show to make him smile, because as soon as he leans into the joke and snorts at the bard’s antics, Jaskier folds and polishes his plate clean. The pit in his stomach grows warm for several moments, until Jaskier leans heavily on Geralt’s arm and sighs about sore feet and beauty sleep. Then the awkward, not-exactly-jealousy-or-envy feeling takes its place and eats at him. He must be stinking of it, but Geralt does not seem to notice, or he deems it irrelevant. Eskel hopes it’s the former.

He tries to reflect on all of this once they’re up in the room his brother and the bard have been kind enough to invite him to share. Jaskier has been an overall delightful companion. He's taken to talk philosophy with Eskel, praising his notions in the area, and asked Geralt several times why he isn't as pleasant a conversationalist as his brother. Questions which were answered with grunts -which is stupid, Geralt is just as smart as he is, just in different areas.   
Eskel doesn’t understand what’s happening, exactly. He doesn’t know what they are like usually, but Jaskier seems perfectly in his element, talking to a Witcher, and overall being his happy self. There’s not a whiff of fear or disgust coming from him and Eskel would cry if he allowed himself to think about it for too long. He hasn’t smelt neutrality on a human in decades, and the absence of the acrid and acidic undertones that usually hang around them when they see him smells as sweet as honey. Geralt seems a little off, but nothing that changes much from the moods he sometimes falls in even in Kaer Morhen. Both Witchers have been looking over their weapons, Jaskier chattering and taking up most of the speaking space as he looks over them. Eskel feels… at peace. He might even sleep this night, instead of falling into a meditative space. It would be nice.

“It’s bath time,” exclaims Jaskier suddenly, as a knock resonates within the room.

“What-”

“Jaskier,” groans Geralt in a tone and smell on him that’s absolutely novel to Eskel. Irritated, embarrassed, a little fond. “We’re not having a bath.”

“Oh, I am not, but you smell, my dear Witcher,” he sing-songs, not listening to or not hearing the strangled noise that Eskel produces. “Would you care for a bath as well, Eskel dear?”

The ‘we’. The ‘dear’, once again. And- the- lust, arousal, that seeps off Jaskier -that smell he couldn’t pinpoint but that spiked as the bathwater was brought in. He feels like he’s intruding on something private to the two other men, that Geralt wants to to keep for himself. He doesn’t blame him, Eskel would probably feel the same, if the churning in his stomach is any indication.

“I am fine, Jaskier. I shall sleep early, I reckon. You and Geralt have that bath.”

Agreeing noises answer him, and he settles in one of the two beds, Geralt and Jaskier having already insisted that he should have one as their guest. He doesn’t believe one word of what he just said, he doesn’t think he can sleep with the background noise in the room, as quiet as they’re trying to be. Jaskier hums songs (lullabies, to be exact) and Eskel can identify every item Geralt sheds from the way they hit the ground. He doesn’t mean to listen, he just hears, and the harder he tries to focus on something else, the louder the sounds seem to grow in his ears. The slosh of water, a rag over scarred skin, fingers rustling through hair. Jaskier’s smell becomes heady, a strong mix of ale, arousal and something very him that he can’t identify clearly. He’s halfway sure he’ll have to leave soon, that they’ll eventually forget he is there with them and -

But Geralt is peaceful, heartbeat sluggish, scent of the mountain snows and shaggy wolf fur untainted. He is staying stoic, snapping his teeth quietly at his friend (lover?) when his hair gets tugged or he gets splashed in his face with water. Eskel is dumbfounded; how can he not lean into what Jaskier is so plainly (if unconsciously) displaying? How can he radiate peace and tiredness when the bard is fleeting about him with adoration in his eyes (oh, Eskel saw it right away, that sparkle in the touches of blue in Jaskier’s face. He wants it to land on him) and smelling like that? He’s paces away and already feeling too hot.

He takes a deep breath.  Meditation will help. Even laying down.  There’s no danger for miles around. He’s with a brother.   
It takes him a long time, the whole duration of two baths, to fall deep. He sleeps, even, falls past meditation and into dreamless and reparative slumber.

\---

First down, first up - Eskel wakes to a slender body latched onto his and feels his whole body tense, ready to throw the stranger away and grab his sword when mountain snows register.  Geralt’s here, Geralt wouldn’t let anything pass himself. Darkness adjusts in seconds, two blinks of his wolfish eyes to be exact. The beds have been pushed together, and both Witchers are facing the door, Jaskier bundled between them. Eskel’s not too sure how to feel about this.

“‘Morning,” Geralt says low as to not wake the human. “He insisted he’d be cold. There’s no arguing with him, unfortunately.”

“I can see that, yes…”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Geralt just- that’s new.”

“Hm. Don’t get used to it. He’s special.”

Shame burns through Eskel. Even if Geralt can’t see him, he smells it, he knows. ‘Special’, he says, casual and neutral as Geralt mostly is, hiding all emotions under an ice cap so thick even his own brothers have trouble breaching through it. Eskel hears ‘mine’, ‘back off’, ‘don’t get ideas’.

“You’ve been lucky.” Geralt scoffs at him in the quiet, sharp and annoyed.

“He’s a pain in the arse. I’m surprised he didn’t hop away to screw all three barmaids last night.”

“He- what?” Eskel nearly swallows his tongue in surprise.

“He’s a scoundrel, that bard. Probably has bastards all over the Continent already.”

“Geralt, that’s not-”

“Let him rave, dear Eskel,” and oh, they’ve woken him now. “He’s just jealous.”

“Yes, right,” is Geralt’s dry answer before he pulls out of bed, flicking the covers off.

“Oi, you rude, **_rude_** bully of a man!” Jaskier gets a full-body shiver and crowds Eskel. “That’s not fair, I don’t run hot like you!”

Jealous, Eskel can believe that. Jaskier seems to be a free spirit. What he took for naiveté at first is simply calculated risk (badly calculated, maybe, but Jaskier seems to know what he’s dealing with), but to know the shameless flirting is only just the first steps of a stair the bard will happily fall down is surprising.   
It shouldn’t be, really, bards have a reputation -in some places, it approximates that of whores rather than of artists. Eskel tries not to think of it too much, because that’s not how he wants to think of his brother's chosen partner. Especially since that partner has been so kind to him, and probably to Lambert as well. He never thought that would ever happen, even throughout lives bound to be as long as theirs.

The morning is spurred into action after that. Eskel has to ride on, but Geralt is just out of a contract and the two of them are staying put for a couple of days. They part with familiar goodbyes, Jaskier even wraps him in a careful hug, avoiding the jacket’s spikes as clumsily as expected. Over the mop brown hair, Geralt’s gaze seems approving for a second before falling back into impassiveness.

Eskel shakes the emptiness that grows through him as he puts distance between them.


	2. Flowers in Chest Cavities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! despite the chapter's title, I promise this is violence-free! I'm really bad at battle and wounds descriptions (great, really, for a fandom like The Witcher). I'm hopeful I'll manage to round this up into a complete story at some point, which is absolutely fantastic on my level. Thank you all for the comments and kudos, that is always so nice to look forward to.

Just before going up to the keep in 1249, Eskel stops by Oxenfurt. He stops by the Academy, to be precise. He's not sure why, because he doesn't like the liveliness of the city, and the Academy is a building that should haunt him -while he has loved learning and is indeed a very learned man, he also hates professors as a general rule. Pedants, the lot of them; often harsh and irascible. He wonders if he would hate Jaskier as a professor, too.

Geralt has told them the man winters at his alma mater when they asked why Jaskier hasn't been shown to the keep yet. They all assume that their brother would one day show up with the ray of sunshine that Jaskier is in tow, and they'd have to deal with the two of them as a package for the winter months. After all, they mostly are a packaged deal the rest of the year. Lambert always seemed very opposed to the idea, he does like his quiet after all, but Eskel nearly wants the bard up there in the mountains with them. If only because sometimes the ruins of the keep get too haunted by the past for his liking. Vesemir is Vesemir, and therefore they have no idea what he thinks of that possibility.  
It never happens, not in seven winters. Eskel's riddled with even more questions than before, even with Geralt's placating "Jaskier wants to teach to the younger generation like he was taught." It's a good enough reason if someone doesn't want to scratch at the surface, but Eskel has rarely heard of couples separating willingly for such long periods of time. Especially when one half of said couple is a witcher; as witchers rarely are shown any kindness and any happiness throughout their lives. Also, Eskel likes scratching at surfaces that involve the only warmth humanity has shown him and as such he thought Geralt would want to bask in the little affection he found along the way. He obviously is wrong in his assumptions, and his brother doesn't ever seem worse for wear during their months-long reunions at Kaer Morhen. He never brings up the bard, and rolls his eyes when anyone does. It's disturbing, to say the least -even Lambert thinks so, from the glances they share when the name of Jaskier is pronounced. Then again, Geralt has always been the strangest of them, even if it hasn't been by choice.

Back to the present where in the beautifully arranged courtyard of stone and bushes that have yet to lose their leaves, Eskel feels out of place. Jaskier, on the other hand, belongs. The man has barely aged since he last saw him, since their first meeting. He looks just as alive reading to a group of students huddled in front of him as he was playing for a crowded inn, and he is beaming to his students the same way a sunflower greets the sun. Eskel not only feels out of place, but also like he's intruding on something even more private than the bath. He suddenly understands Geralt's point of view; if the White Wolf has also been privy to such a sight, no wonder he hasn't wanted to pluck Jaskier away from the Academy. It would seem cruel and twisted to ask the man to tear himself away from something he so clearly enjoys, and that he could never find in the dead of winter, up high in the Kaedweni mountains and at the heart of a haunted keep. So he simply raises his hand in greeting as Jaskier's surprised gaze falls on him, and then turns around. Not exactly fleeing, but the steps and the notion don't feel completely estranged from that behaviour either. No matter. He's got to beat the first snows to get to Kaer Morhen, after all.

\---

That winter, Geralt is moody. Not as he is usually, but actually, truly upset. He turns and turns in his bed at night, when he sleeps at all; his sparring is fueled with anger and bitterness; he barely talks with them. For weeks, he's insufferable; and once they're as good as snowed in with no escape route possible through the meters of snow and the blizzards, he caves.

When he admits he's gotten a Child of Surprise, it falls to Lambert and Vesemir to talk with him. Eskel feels sick to his stomach the whole day and following night, scars aflame and sleep escaping him. The feeling lasts the whole winter months, even though it eases enough for him to eat and sleep correctly not long after the revelation. He didn't want it to go like that, but Geralt avoids him their whole time together at the keep. He doesn't try to go to him either, so he supposes that they're both responsible for the brother-shaped hole in his chest. He has no idea how to broach the subject, no idea how to talk to Geralt about how fucking stupid he's been. They're all Children of Surprise, he should have known better.

He wonders, fleetingly, if Jaskier knows. He's quite sure Jaskier knows, and then Lambert lets it slip (or not, it's _Lambert_ ) that it was during a feast at the Court of Cintra Jaskier was playing at. The promised child is a princess, too, and isn't that just a little too much like history is repeating itself? The curse of the Black Sun is no more than a story nowadays, thank fuck, but the similarities between the two children scares Eskel. At least that one has two parents. If one's fucking up in any way because he's a witcher, Geralt's other part would be able to pick up the slack, for sure.  
And then, when the ice on the mountain starts to thaw, Geralt comes to him and explains how he isn't going to pick up the child before their sixth birthday, and Eskel can appreciate that. He wonders if that's a good thing for the parents -knowing their child before it's taken away, he finds, could be a curse in disguise- but it's definitely better suited for a witcher. Their life cannot accommodate for an infant, a toddler or even a young child. It's even difficult with a bard, apparently.

Eskel hugs his brother tight before they split up back to go on the Path, returning the olive branch and readying next year's stay, hoping that nine months apart from each other would allow for feelings to settle. He couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least try to make it better, even though he believes, knows that none of this clusterfuck is his fault.

And so the year of 1250 begins, under a pale sun of past bitterness and stale resentment, the two of them mulling over their own set of discontentments.

* * *

He finds them on the path once more, without trying at all that time. His heart sings when he catches a whiff of his brother's scent upwind, mingled with the charming if matured undertones of Jaskier -wood oil, sunshine, fresh grass and human.

Finding the bard again seems natural. The only surprised exclamations are his melodious ones, Geralt warned of Eskel's arrival by the same means he found them in the first place; and Jaskier never says a word about the glimpse they had of each other in Oxenfurt all these autumns ago, for which Eskel is deeply grateful. He must have caught them not too long after they reunited themselves, as he distinguishes them more easily than that first time. Jaskier remembers his name, remembers where to place his elegant, wiry and clever fingers on his shoulders to avoid the spikes as he tugs him in for a hug. Eskel tries not to mind that the easy touch, still empty of the acrid smell of fear, feels like a burn all down his front and around his neck, as if he needed yet another scar.

He's still troubled by Geralt's behaviour. It hasn't changed at all, hasn't mellowed. While the bard fleets about, giving random touches, exuding confidence and love -smelling so enticing- Geralt is as stoic as ever. He barely acknowledges the offerings and the admiration, doesn't return the kindnesses.  
Eskel would be jealous, if none of it was sent his way. But Jaskier slides down to sit next to him, his touch and speech as freely given to him as it is to Geralt. It's maddening. There's no way to tell if the bard is genuine (he seems to be, though), or trying to rile his little brother up, or just wanting to console himself with Eskel. That would be understandable, if Geralt has never moved one finger to answer the lust, the longing, the joy that his presence brings. He won't give into it, however, his reason (Geralt's heavy gaze, when they talk about poetry) telling him that it's the worst idea he could have. Whatever he feels in the pit of his stomach, Geralt and Jaskier are a packaged deal whether his brother appreciates the luck he has or not. So Eskel does his best to return the warmth sent his way, but stays overall very polite and neutral, and certainly doesn't return the butterfly touches Jaskier likes to use so much.  
His senses however, like their other wolfish attributes, scream at him to let out the envies in his chest and gut. To reach out, touch, mark, lick. Not even sexually, not exactly- he just wants the bard. It doesn't sound safe, or right. Geralt has a small smile the next time Eskel glances at him, and it seems strangely smug. Dear Gods, he must reek of it, even if he behaves like a normal human, the unnatural, unsexual want must have modified his pheromones and scent somehow. Eskel hates the idea of it and the smile adorning his brother's face, so he decides to go bathe. Jaskier makes a squawk when he stands up brusquely and Geralt snorts at his bard.

He is left alone until he comes back to their little camp, just in time to eat a thin rabbit stew. The smells of it have been floating to him for quite some time, so he's been able to time his arrival just right to be able to escape the small talk at the maximum of his capacities. Jaskier seems subdued, however, as if he's come to some conclusion or the other about needing to be quiet -something Geralt seems quite adamant that he does. They eat in relative peace, then, and even if it isn't exactly filling for a witcher (they'd need five full bowls to even feel a slight distension of their stomach and only had one and a half), the feeling of a warm dinner in the company of two persons who accept and enjoy his presence is soothing. The only disturbances are brought by small forest animals, especially a squirrel who chucks an empty nutshell at their pile of empty bowls. Geralt falls into meditation, but Jaskier doesn't pick his chatter up, simply leaning against him as he polishes his lute. Sooner than he'd like (he wanted to talk, understand the man who draws him in, but not in front of his brother even if he is meditating), Eskel calls it a night and starts his preparations. That spurs the two others to do the same, and soon he buries himself in a blanket. He covers his nose, scrunches his eyes tightly. Anything to avoid thinking of the two other men going over their shared routine and-

"Eskel, no! Come sleep on the bedrolls with us!"

Geralt snorts once more but doesn't correct Jaskier. Said bedrolls are thin, worked through by the two men over the years. Even from where he is, Eskel can see that and wonders whether it would actually be more comfortable than plain, packed earth.  
However his body has moved without waiting on his thought process and he feels like swearing, except Jaskier's deep blue eyes are twinkling at him from a near-leveled height.

"Fine, but I don't share blankets," he grouses because he _has_ to keep face somehow.

"That's fair, I have my own! Geralt has his, too."

"Hmm," is his brother's very edifying answer.

It takes him barely an hour to fall asleep once the bard has joined him. He's certain, his mind hazy as he tries to stay awake just a little longer, to pretend this isn't what he longs for, that Geralt will tease him forever about sleeping so easily because of a pliant human. Maybe he will growl as well, telling him off from wanting this so much.

\---

In the morning, Eskel isn't surprised that the bard has latched onto him once more. Sunshine fills his nose, makes him choke on sweetness and meadow flowers. Fresh snow lingers, as if Geralt had been draped over the both of them during the night. There is no sourness on the air, as if that night had been very much a normal one. Jaskier, on his part, has worked himself under both their blankets and tucked his cold human toes in the crook of Eskel's knee. Truly impressive for a man asleep and burdened with the impassible forces that two witchers can be.  
Despite dawn having broken, and the empty space on the other side of the bard where Geralt must've been only minutes before, Eskel goes back to sleep; weak and wanting, nose buried into soft dark hair.

Jaskier says nothing of how they're clinging to one another when he wakes up, and Eskel is very grateful for it. Geralt, on the other hand, mocks him even as he chews food for sleeping in, "as much as the bard, ah!" being the most common utterance he pronounces that morning. Eskel tries not to feel too embarrassed -if Geralt has this most of his time on the Path, maybe he's forgotten how terrible it is to be on your own for so long. It's even worse for Eskel, who does not share Geralt's good looks anymore. The scars are too prominent to allow any human (except Jaskier, fantastic Jaskier) to settle their nerves enough to approach him willingly. Everywhere he goes fear and repulsion fill the air, even in brothels and after he saves someone.

Once more they part without many words being exchanged, but Jaskier puts a dandelion and a couple of buttercups through the lacing of his armour. Eskel doesn't mention it as they hug goodbye, and this time he avoids Geralt's eyes over the human's shoulder.

He doesn't know it yet, but third time's the charm.

* * *

It's 1256 and Jaskier still has never been shown to Kaer Morhen. Even Vesemir, aware of Geralt's bard impulsiveness and helpful nature, is wondering how that is. Sixteen years, and no secure agreement on what their relationship exactly is. Humans do not live long enough to spend so much of sixteen years with a man without forming… Attachment, obvious attachment. The wolves are understandably confused.

Geralt comes home and his scent is intertwined with ozone, lilac and gooseberries. The mixture is tart and sweet like a decadent pastry, disgustingly mage-like. Not bard-like at all. Eskel isn't the only one to be surprised, if the snarl that curls Lambert's lip is any indication. Vesemir looks disapproving as well, but he's long stopped trying to reason with them. They're the last of what he considered his family, and Eskel understands it would be too much for him to drive any of them away.  
But Eskel thinks of the slim, gangly and adoring bard that still runs along his brother, last he heard. He doubts Jaskier would be possessive or even the type to appreciate monogamy anyway, but Geralt has never come back smelling so strongly of him. He wonders if the witch portalled right at the foot of the mountains to bed his brother; but then again he's never heard anything that would imply that mages would stoop so low as to walk through the forest. They must have spent time together, in closer quarters and doing closer activities than Geralt and Jaskier ever have. It doesn't sit right with him. So he heaves a sigh one night, over a glass of their brother's terrible homemade vodka.

"A mage, Geralt? Really?"

"We understand each other. Her name's Yennefer."

"I doubt it. Mages find us interesting."

"You don't know her. You don't know how we met."

Geralt's tone has taken a dangerous edge, urging Eskel to drop the subject; and Eskel hasn't even uttered the name he wanted to know about. This wouldn't be just a fight, and Eskel despite how disappointed he is about his brother's behaviour, doesn't want it to unravel their relationship. He's no closer to figuring out how the three of them work, because he's still certain that Jaskier is included in Geralt's life. He has to. Geralt is an arse, but he holds fondness for the eccentric man, Eskel knows so, has witnessed it. He's too awkward to try to scratch at that surface and he knows trying to mention any emotional life means mentioning Yennefer, which in turns means that his brother will close up without a doubt. So he's left wondering what exactly is of Jaskier the Bard these days, now that the White Wolf directs his affections towards a sorceress and might not impart any in answer to the man's.

Eskel passes a very cold, uncertain winter. He cares for Lil' Bleater, a young goat that managed to worm its way into his heart just the year before, and Scorpion, and the rest is a blurr.

* * *

Years pass slowly and Eskel hopes. The work is harsh, sparse, not well paid but better paid at the very least. He's no White Wolf after all, but the people are grateful and he is rarely chased off without payment. He listens to silly songs and epics about said White Wolf, smiles indulgently at the wildest turns of phrase that scream 'my name is Jaskier and I didn't want to list all the potions the apple of my eyes can make with gore'.

Sometimes at the beginning of winter he goes by Oxenfurt and spies around, as much as a hunk of a man like him can spy. He never trails anywhere close to the Academy, scared to be found out like that first time. It wouldn't do, not at all; so he asks about 'a Jas-something', citing his gratefulness for the songs. People never ask twice about his motives, which he's relieved about. Hopefully all that follow these visits are reports to Professor Jaskier that a witcher came through town and wanted to thank him, but was too hurried to stop by the Academy.  
Eskel is nearly fifteen years into having a one-sided love for a man he's met properly twice, and is only just realising it. It's quite embarrassing, really, but he also remembers just how many rumours there are about witchers having been rid of all ability to feel, to love -being shaved down to only but automatic monster-killing machines. He knows it is easy for them too to be blinded by those when they're so commonplace; but then he has compassion, Geralt has his moral compass, Lambert has his anger, Vesemir his hurt. It's rather simple when he stops and agrees to pass his feelings in review. He aches for Jaskier, longs to talk with him and tell him how much he means, but Eskel doesn't dare. He remembers the absolute care and warmth seeping from the man that first night they met, and how they were directed at the lumbering, white-haired idiot he calls a brother. The second night he spent with them he never brings forth in his mind, feeling weak for it and a betrayal of Geralt's trust with his bard. And even if Geralt has Yennefer, he knows the bard feels for the witcher in any case. It wouldn't feel right to just barge into that.

So Eskel holds his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this round! I hope you enjoyed it, see you next time!


	3. And Winter Came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry this took so long, I'm always in a funk after a couple of chapters. Hopefully this is the ending you all were waiting for!!

They've all seen ghastly faces, more fires and necrophages than the norm, and the black, glinting army walking north.  
Geralt passes the threshold with a little firecracker of a lady, but his face is drawn and haunted, even more so than the previous years. Said years were quite terrible, too, and Geralt has a sturdy composition, so that's quite the picture he paints. Yet Eskel is very, very annoyed.

"Where is Jaskier?"

He's surprised at his own question. But he's tired -they all are. They said nothing when Geralt got into a relationship (admittedly, he even flaunted it, one could say) with a sorceress and deliberately ignored the bard's affections. They said nothing when Geralt came back with his pack as light as it used to be twenty two years prior a couple of winters back, and they said nothing when the faint trust that had started being put in witchers as a guild was brutally taken away once more.

Whatever had transpired between Geralt and Jaskier wasn't anyone's business but theirs. It put Eskel on edge to see his brother retreat back again, further away from the rest of the world than ever before, but he didn't raise any questions. He is preoccupied enough as it is, he isn't the only one to feel that dark times are upon them. Not just witchers, but humanity as a whole (and yes, he counts himself in that, thank you very much).  
Not that it is any easier on them: just a month before taking the road up the mountains, Eskel had heard a story involving the Butcher of Blaviken. He hadn't heard that moniker in over fifteen years and had to leave the room. He'd nearly had a panic attack and not for the first time, wondered how bad it must have been for Jaskier to leave Geralt's side and stop singing his praises across the northern kingdoms. He dearly hoped the bard was fine, wherever he was.

Presently, Geralt is facing both him and Lambert. He hasn't smelt of Jaskier or Yennefer in three years, but he brought back the Child Surprise. Her name is Cirilla, but they are to call her Ciri or Fiona in untrusted company, and Eskel can already tell they will all love the lion cub fiercely. She's nothing like his own princess had been, thank the Gods. Ciri is bright and smart, and she already adores Geralt. But a war is afoot with her in the middle of it, the southern borders -Sodden, Cintra- have burnt to the ground. Yennefer can fight for herself, and Eskel doesn't care about the sorceress. Jaskier is a different story - they've met, first of all, and second, the man has done so much for them all. Geralt's gaze turns thunderous, righteous even at the question, and oh, how Eskel wants to beat his ass for being so stubbornly closed off from his emotions.

"What?"

"Where is the bard, Geralt," Lambert growls from his spot next to Eskel.

Cirilla has been sent to bed minutes ago. That isn't a talk she needs to hear, but Geralt certainly does. This has been going on for long enough. Jaskier has been endangered for over twenty years, now more than ever. Eskel didn't expect his youngest brother to side with him however, but he isn't going to spit on it. Lambert rarely gets involved but when he does, he is a welcome help, all teeth and blunt force. Vesemir stands to the side, apparently uninterested by the start of their argument. Eskel knows better, though, the old man has always appreciated how the bard has helped their reputation over the years.

"Why do you two care about him? He's been but a thorn in my side since the beginning-"

"A thorn? Geralt, are you such a moron that you don't realise how godsdamn lucky you've been? He's helped, so much-"

Eskel turns to Lambert slowly -his help _is_ appreciated, but he always runs so hot, so wild. They don't need an explosion right now. They need sound, specific arguments. The both of them are angry, for wildly different reasons that all stem from jealousy, but now isn't the moment for _feelings_. It never is -they're witchers. Witchers don't deal with feelings, apparently. It’s always better when they don’t.

"He's out there somewhere, ready to be plucked by Nilfgaard, and you can't even tell us of his whereabouts?" Eskel's voice cuts through the start of the angry rant Lambert has started on. It's icy, steady. Eskel isn't the kind to yell and explode. He's a deadly opponent, calm, precise. He aims to hurt, even his own brother. "Everybody and their mother on this Continent knows he's _your_ bard. Singing his delightful little ballads about the White Wolf of Rivia. So now that you're finally making it right with your Child Surprise who is a princess on the run, you get hunted by the southern whoresons, and you leave the only human who's ever been understanding enough to bear your presence for more than a fortnight at their mercy?"

Eskel glares in a way he's never done before. He can feel his forehead ache under the strain of it. He's no longer an understanding big brother, who's always been there for Geralt, no matter how much he wanted to be alone. Seems he managed that well enough on his own anyway, the stupid arse. He had a best friend and tossed him away like a rag _and_ a love story with a sorceress that he ruined as well. Figures the most idiotic of them would be the lucky one. Eskel won't push at calling Geralt undeserving, but it is a close call. Lambert's blinking way faster than he needs to -he can hear the flutter of eyelashes- and Geralt, in front of him, is so pink that the anger and shame he's displaying by scent isn't surprising in the least. Eskel feels a sick sort of pleasure at the sight of it. As said, he doesn't feel like being a big brother at the moment.

"That's not-"

"Shut up, you idiot," Lambert says with a grunt, surprise colouring his tone. "He'll bite your head off."

"He left! Alright? Jaskier left."

"He's in love with you," Eskel scoffs. "He'd never do that."

"He is not. He left, Yennefer left- they both left years ago and I will not grovel. I won't, I managed well enough on my own."

"Of course you fucking won't grovel, you did so well on your own people are calling you Butcher again. You tire me, Geralt; you and your inability to face your emotions. Don't expect me this winter, say sorry to Ciri about that. I'm going to look for Jaskier."

Vesemir moves at that moment, but the eldest of the three wolf pups bares his teeth as he storms off the door. He doesn't address another word to anyone but their mentor, talking in hushed tones as he picks up his things. He knows it sounds like madness, a witcher alone on the Path in the winter, with no contracts, no money; just his horse and his swords. Eskel knows he will never make it up the mountainside before the following year, and that he risks being overwhelmed and too tired during the summertime, but he doesn't care. To be as prepared as possible, he packs as much as Scorpion can bear in his saddlebags. In under an hour, he is finally done and leading his stead out the gates. The first heavy snow sets in the next morning, and Ciri's first winter in Kaer Morhen is spent without her older uncle.

\---

Jaskier doesn't hide. Eskel is equally pleased and worried by the habit the bard has to be flamboyant, loud and exuberant. It means he's easy to find; but Eskel is quite sure he's not the only one after the bard. He's proven right after only a half dozen weeks on the road, following the trail of him as easily as if it was painted in bold arrows on the ground. The trek isn't easy, since the weather is getting shittier by the day, but at least Eskel has a clear direction to follow, south and towards Oxenfurt, just as he expected.  
Towards Nilfgaard. For a moment, he's worried the bard has either a death wish or a vendetta against Geralt and by association, the little princess. He doesn't truly think the bard could ever be disloyal to Geralt, no matter how bad the feud between them is, yet he has to be prepared for any eventuality. It would ruin everything if that is the case, but Eskel hopes he doesn't have to do anything drastic. Given the state he finds the bard in, his possible treason is brushed aside for a much more plausible explanation : Jaskier is brokenhearted. After years, he's still brokenhearted. something hurts in Eskel's chest at the sight.

He looks downright miserable. It's wintertime, so he's understandably slimmer, but his cheeks are thinner than that, carved a little like he's been malnourished for a while. Not enough to look starving and sickly, just a small detail Eskel can notice. His eyes and smell give away the fact he's been drinking steadily for months, and right as the witcher's gaze lands on him there is a faint smile on his lips as he nurses whatever is left of a glass of wine. Given the pink shade of his cheeks, Eskel guesses the glass was once full, maybe several times over. Lilac and gooseberries, tart yet sweet, hang in the air. He worries that _she_ is still there for a second, but then her perfume would be stronger. As heady as it is, it doesn't seem to bother Jaskier who bears it as if it was lightness itself; and by that composure only Eskel can feel himself relax a little. They're not about to be attacked by a scorned sorceress. He doubts he could have _that_ conversation with the two people Geralt has abandoned at once. In two large strides, he's by the younger man's side and clears his throat. Jaskier jumps, arms coming up defensively. He looks shaken, feral; like a young animal that was just abused.  
Has he been abused?  
The bard's face clears immediately as he recognises the witcher, the sadness that plagued him previously all but evaporating. Eskel realises once again that the man doesn't seem to have aged in the slightest. He puts the thought aside to examine later.

"Oh, Eskel, sweet Eskel, hello. It's been so long! You have no idea how much comfort the sight of your handsome face brings to me-"

"Hello to you too, Jaskier," he manages to cut the bard off with a rumble of a laugh. "I've come to pick you up. We're spending the winter together."

He's had the time to craft a lie. Geralt couldn't come get him, newly laden with the Child of Surprise, basking in the joys of fatherhood at the same time as fending off Nilfgaardian pursuers from his daughter. Lambert was needed for repairs, and wouldn't let his kindness extend to a human he barely met. So Eskel came to him. It's too late to go back up to the keep, and they'll have to lodge wherever a witcher will be accepted. Surely they'll find something.  
Jaskier looks up at him with big, watery eyes and Eskel can see tension playing in his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, Jaskier filling up his nose prettily, if a little stale from his obvious sadness and drunken state. Exhausted, scared. Maybe bruised, if the iron-y hint that lingers at the back of his throat is anything to go by. Eskel feels a protective growl build up in his chest.

"I- this is very sudden, I don't know-"

"Please," Eskel says quietly. "It's safer. You look shaken, bardling, is anything the matter?"

"I've had quite the day, you'll barely believe me.”

"Spin your tale, Jaskier." He smiles in a way he knows pulls at his scar, making him look uglier, but he trusts that Jaskier will take it for what it is. And indeed, the man smiles back wanly. "I'll trust my witchery instincts."

He sits heavily in the bench, close enough to have the bard lean towards him for warmth, and Jaskier tells him about a song a little too specific, a shady character named Rience until he finishes by Yennefer's excellent timing. By the end of it, Eskel is doing all he can to contain himself and not gather the smaller (but far from small) man up and scent him, make sure he's alright, nose at every inch of his skin. He can feel himself grow jittery and sweaty, hates his body and his mutations, not for the first time in his life. Jaskier has ordered more wine and is trying to drown himself in it, if his actions are anything to go by. Eskel lets out a tired little laugh.

"I'll have to thank Yennefer. Gods, the things you're going to make me do, bardling."

"I said thanks already, I really don't hate her that much."

"Oh, but I want to. You're too precious to me, Jaskier, and I'm grateful for her help."

Despite it all, Jaskier smells like himself. Without Geralt's musk mixed with his, his natural scent shines through the soap and the horse ones, sharp and delicate like a well-carved dagger under the wine. Sadness has edged away as he got drunker, leaving its bitterness behind like a bad dream. With his brother out of the picture, for good, apparently, Eskel can allow himself some weaknesses, he believes. He hopes Jaskier isn't going to be pining after his brother for too long. Surprise colours the bard's face, and Eskel realises what he just called the man. He knows he barely blushes, and that no one else in the room can tell his heart skipped a beat, but it is annoying to know it nonetheless.

"Precious..?"

"Well, certainly you know how easier you've made our lives?"

"Uhm… Yes, you mentioned, all those years ago. But-"

"Precious is the one who can alleviate the burden of a witcher. Will you at least- may I crash with you for the night? I was focused on finding you and I'm quite tired."

"Of course, Eskel. If we are to spend the winter together, then we might as well start today."

They exchange tired smiles, and Eskel helps Jaskier back to his room. They get surprised glances, but Eskel cannot tell if it's because he's a witcher or because the bard finally decided to snap out of his self-inflicted, pitiful stupor. The room isn't too small so there's plenty of space for his bags, but there only is one single bed. It’s clean enough for a roadside inn, for which he is grateful. He already knows Jaskier won't allow for him to sleep on the floor, but it feels polite to ask. He does once he’s gotten his swords off and put them up next to the bed.

"Shall I sleep on my bedroll on the floor?"

"Don't be ridiculous," comes the expected answer. "We'll crowd. It's winter, I can do with the extra heat."

He only smiles in answer, following Jaskier in the menial tasks of undressing to his smalls and splashing some water on his face, before they both get tangled together under the sheets and blankets on the bed. It's easy, smooth, like they've been doing this for over twenty years together, and it wasn't Geralt Jaskier had spent all that time with. Eskel aches. The bed creaks under their combined weight, but the lines of worry ease on Jaskier's face, and suddenly everything feels right. Eskel heaves a breath he isn't aware he's been holding, and watches Jaskier's face scrunch prettily (this shouldn't be allowed, honestly, the man is probably around forty now) and his hair dance on his forehead from it.

"You still love him, don't you?" He asks in the quiet, his stupid mouth deciding on hurting him even as he gathers the bard in his arms.

"Geralt? No." That's suspiciously succinct, coming from the poet.

"What happened, Jaskier? He hasn't been around you in years."

"He… He wished for me to be off his hands. So I left. I figured he needed time, that he'd find me once he had calmed down, but… Oh, it's alright. We didn't see each other for a couple years after Cintra, too."

"But you still love him." Firmer. Nearly accusatory, even he doesn't mean it to be like that.

"No. I haven't been in love with Geralt of Rivia in a long time. Not after Cintra. I couldn't." He smiles sadly, "That doesn't mean I don't love him."

"You're very complicated, rossignol," Eskel says with a satisfied smile when Jaskier levels a surprised glance at him. "What? I know fancy Toussaintois words, too. And you're small, pretty, and sing as beautifully as one."

"I'm far from small, you're just a mountain of muscles."

"Kind of comes with the job."

"I know, my dear. It's far from unpleasant."

Eskel basks in the warmth procured by the compliment, feeling awkward as Jaskier slots his body against his. But the man is lax, heavy weight as he slowly falls asleep. Eskel wraps him in his arms, a hand coming to hold his nape as the bard rests his face in the slope of his neck.

"May I stay with you afterwards? After the winter."

The question is soft, almost dreamlike. Eskel tenses. Could he manage more than just one season with the man by his side? He doesn't want to be a replacement for Geralt, that's why he accepted not to be around Jaskier. That it was better that way. That no one could love him, a scraggly witcher with a disfiguring scar, a dwarf goat to take care of and none of the fame his brother enjoyed when he wasn’t busy being a complete prick.

Jaskier snuffles as he waits for an answer, his lips catching on Eskel’s skin over his light stubble. His heart -and another part of his anatomy, too- jumps to his throat.

“We’ll see how we fare, yes? You might not be able to stand me more than a couple of days.”

“Or you won’t bear my bard-y ways. We’ll see.”

\---

They fare extremely well, all things considered. They live the winter off of Jaskier’s meagre savings and impromptu concerts, and the occasional contract Eskel manages to track down. The cold and the snow don’t help either of them to thrive, of course, but they have each other. To Eskel, that’s more than enough to carry on. Scorpion takes to Jaskier like a duck to water, the bard absolutely adoring the large, moody stallion. It’s a wonder Geralt has never mentioned how good the man is with horses, as picky as he is with Roach’s care. Eskel figures once more that his brother has simply never appreciated the nice things in life, despite having a lot worse than most.

The winter goes without any other Rience scare, probably because Jaskier now has a witchery shadow again, one that is a little scarier than Geralt ever was. The bard isn’t fooled by the scowl that is a permanent feature on Eskel’s face while they’re in public; and Eskel is only too glad that he’s not told off for it. He had expected Jaskier to demand that he act and look more amenable, but he never says anything of the like, seemingly enjoying the challenge in balancing out the innate witcher grumpiness that he travels with. Eskel makes sure the grumpiness is never directed at his travel companion, however, and keeps his rare smiles (rare only because they pull at his scar and make it even uglier) for when there’s only the two of them.

Sometimes, he nearly slips and declares his love to Jaskier. But the bard still looks a little haunted, and sometimes he looks at him with a blank look that screams of yearning, and Eskel doesn’t want that look to land on him and get stuck. He doesn’t want to be second best, scrapings, what have you. It would be too much and not enough at the same time. He can wait months, years -that’s what being a witcher is for.It’s difficult to ignore himself when Jaskier decides to sing about his hunts. He never realised just how gratifying that would be until he hears a couple lines about a tall man slaying a wyvern ‘with little else but the strength in his arms’. One more time, Eskel wonders why Geralt has cut ties with such a wonderful being. He cannot, for the life of him, stop looking at Jaskier, bent over his lute and fiddling with the melody. Then when Jaskier levels his eyes up and realises that his new muse is staring, all wide golden eyes and parted lips, he decides to sing the whole couplet. Eskel cannot imagine the warmth and twinkle in the blue of his eyes, or the fond curve of his lips. Nor can he mistake the sweetness in the air around the bard, the exact same that he remembers from their meetings with Geralt. He’s just not that much of a dreamer, and has always been very practical.  
He stays silent, staring even more at Jaskier.

“You don’t like it?”

“I doubt that would influence you in any way,” he croaks. “I love it.”

“You don’t look like someone who loves what he just heard.”

“I’m a little surprised, that’s all.”

“You’re just as worthy as Geralt of having-”

“I think I love you,” Eskel blurts out, throwing years, decades of caution to the wind. To his merit, Jaskier merely seems pleasantly surprised, and not horrified like he should.

“You do?”

“Jaskier, it was a mistake, please-”

“I was only wondering when you’d let me know why you stare so much.”

Eskel freezes. That’s worse than he could have imagined. Jaskier knew and he never thought of saying anything? Maybe he liked the attention -of course he liked the attention, what was he saying. Maybe it amused him, to see a big, stumbling witcher look at him in a way Geralt had never. It probably soothed his ego, after so much time being ignored-

“You’re getting lost in your own head, Esk.”

“Please don’t-”

“Look at me.”

He reluctantly agrees to do so, meeting Jaskier’s shining, impossibly blue eyes. The sun catches in them, and Eskel doesn’t mind having been found out so much for the span of an instant. Then the fear rears its ugly head again and he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels his heart start getting ahead of himself, the sweet scent of the air making him choke, and suddenly he wants to leave. It’s a nightmare. He’s being played by a mage. Maybe Rience finally tracked them down, got a peek in his head-

“Please, dearheart. I think I love you, too.”

He jerks at the soft-spoken admission. His heart doesn’t stop its racing, and he can feel the unpleasant tightness in his chest as it nears the pace of a normal man’s. He can’t even hear the beat of Jaskier’s over how loud his is. The sweetness is starting to envelop him, and that more than anything else calms him down gradually. He belatedly realises that Jaskier has made his way to sit close to him as the man soothes his hand up and down his back. Eskel shudders, for it’s still daylight and they’re by a relatively busy road. Jaskier’s heart registers faintly, a little rapid but steady.

“You’re still mourning what you never had with Geralt,” he says quietly, hating himself for destroying any chance he has. He’d rather have nothing than some baseless dream that would crumble as soon as Jaskier could see clearly again.

“I mourn that he never had the courage to find me and apologise,” Jaskier huffs with indignation. “Can we not talk about him? I want to use my mouth in a more pleasant manner.”

“Uh, sure, what-”

He’s cut off by Jaskier kissing him, very gently, like he’s something precious that could break or melt away. He adores the feeling that a man so smart with words would rather use his mouth to kiss him than to sing and speak his poetry. It makes him feel more valued than nearly anything else in his life.Although he himself has a more direct and brusque approach to all things physical and sexual, and makes it known quite quickly.

Jaskier doesn’t complain even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super happy with how it turned out (thanks, brain) so I might tweak it in the next couple of days!  
> And who knows, maybe I'll be making some annexes to this adventure. I know I like it very much.
> 
> Thank you all for the ride and the nice energy and comments!

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! The first of an (hopefully) much longer story. Comments are always appreciated ! :)


End file.
